


Better Late

by seashadows



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (sort of), Blow Jobs, Clothed Sex, Coming In Pants, Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, First Time, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mary is not forgotten, Spoilers, stream of consciousness at times, the inside of Sherlock's head is an interesting place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-15 22:52:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9261692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seashadows/pseuds/seashadows
Summary: The sensations resolved in a nearly-audible clack of energy, nucleotides fitting seamlessly into a double helix. The wild search of his mind palace ended in a single tiny room that needed no more decoration than what he had. Two occupants; that was enough.A missing scene from Series 4, Episode 2: The Lying Detective.





	

It was almost too much. John’s head on his chest, hot breath and tears that would probably leave an irritating stain if he cared enough about that shirt to be irritated, his hand cupping the back of John’s neck – he’d never done this before; how did he know how to do it now? He didn’t cry as a child, not in any scenarios where Mummy (or God forbid, _Mycroft_ ) would have touched his neck to comfort him. Sick guilt, as heavy in his stomach as terrible food. _I did this to him I stirred his emotions but I have none but this is one and John is here so it must be for him but he spoke to Mary he mourns Mary he’s crying for her I can’t disturb that I can’t hurt him –_

 _John._

The sensations resolved in a nearly-audible clack of energy, nucleotides fitting seamlessly into a double helix. The wild search of his mind palace ended in a single tiny room that needed no more decoration than what he had. Two occupants; that was enough. 

“It’s okay,” he said, and stroked John’s neck. John shivered in his grasp, still shaking with the force of his tears. 

“It’s not okay.” 

Of course it wasn’t. He’d made it worse – but no, John wasn’t pulling away. “No,” Sherlock told him, “but it is what it is.” 

John sniffled into his shirt, and Sherlock held him tighter, stroking his shuddering back. _Go to hell_. He would. He had. His throat still ached with the memory of Smith’s eager fingers. _There is something you need to know about the man we both love_. She knew – she knew before he did that the second John walked into Bart’s and met Sherlock’s eyes, the moment John shot a man for him, the moment he hid from an imaginary dog on Sherlock’s say-so, the world had become that much more…no. That much less boring. 

“John,” he said softly in what he hoped was a comforting tone, and lowered his face so that his nose touched the top of John’s head. John hadn’t showered in two…not quite three days, and he’d sweated a great deal since then, going by the smell. He hadn’t bothered with any new application of hair tonic. Nightmares and grief, letting himself go indeed. The baby had probably received better care at his hands than he had. 

“Sherlock,” John answered. His voice wavered, and he hiccupped into a new sob as his spastically-clenched hands came out from between them to wrap around Sherlock’s sides and back. His forehead bumped Sherlock’s nose, and Sherlock wrinkled it at the sudden pain. If not for the grave situation, this might have been something funny, something out of a comedy of errors, but not even Mycroft in his dry, inhuman ways would find anything funny about this. Or maybe he would; undoubtedly he’d review the security footage later, the tosser. At any rate, he couldn’t see into Sherlock’s head to chastise him for any such ‘common’ phrasing – 

“Sherlock?” John said his name in a tone that implied he’d said it before. Ah, he’d been wandering. Sherlock shook the mirage of his mind palace out of his eyes and looked down. John had his face tipped up, tear-bright eyes glittering at him out of puffy lids. _Pure English ancestry with that level of skin sensitivity. I’ll ask him later._ “Can…is…is it…” 

Someone more adept in social mores might be able to interpret that gibberish. For once in his life, Sherlock closed his eyes and wished with all his might that he were among that group; if so, he might know if it were really that easy to ask for what he wanted. _The man we both love_. “What is it?” 

John’s throat moved with a single sharp swallow. He licked his lips. “Could I?” he asked, and this time, it was a whisper. 

“Yes.” Sherlock’s own lips had gone dry for some reason. _Yes, oui, sí, sim, ja, ken, na’am, hai, ndiyo, da_ can’t say _da_ anymore with how Putin’s faffing about lately, don’t care if Mycroft’s got him on speed dial _and yes and yes and yes_. “Whatever you want.” 

What John wanted was to wordlessly move forward until they stood chest to chest, raise up on his toes, and press his lips against Sherlock’s until Sherlock’s eyes fell closed and the guilt in his stomach turned to a softly-burning fire. Could John feel it? Oh – John’s tongue prodded his lips and Sherlock opened them in silent assent. _Yes_ , he could. 

He was wearing too much. No, John was wearing too much. Sherlock’s clothes could stay where they were, because – 

He let go of John just long enough to drop to his knees (the carpet was thinning like a politician’s hair) and hug him around the waist, pressing his face against his shirt. A button bumped him in the left nostril. “I…” The bottom of John’s shirt parted and revealed the skin beneath, warm and speckled with wiry hair. Sherlock impulsively pressed his face against it and kissed there, too, moving up to just beneath his navel. 

John squeaked and squirmed in place. “That tickles!” 

Stubble. And consent. Yes. He couldn’t get carried away, if he should even do this in the first place. Grief and nightmares. Potent combination even for John. “Is this all right?” He tipped up his face to look at John, whose face he suddenly couldn’t read. Either there was a short circuit in the biological mess that was his transport or John didn’t want this. 

John shook his head sharply in all directions, not so much a dissent as a dog shaking off water. “Yes. Please, Sherlock. _Please_.” 

Before he could answer the yes, the words flowed out of him in a sudden rush. “Mary was right.” Curse him by whatever higher powers existed for bringing her up again when John was barely recovered from the tears, but he could do nothing except press on. “You’re the man that we both…I love. I – love you.” It was as if he’d thrown up, the hard convulsion and then the unspeakable relief. Speakable, now. That wasn’t a word and he didn’t care. 

John hiccupped again and briefly pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, then reached down to gently touch Sherlock’s hair. “I knew that,” he said. “I watched the video, too.” 

He wouldn’t say it today. Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to be disappointed. Grief muddled anyone’s sensibilities, no matter what they felt, and it was enough that he’d said it. John could feel whatever he liked, but they had _touched_ in all ways since they met. It didn’t have to be audible love. “Could I?” Sherlock echoed, and pressed his face rather lower. 

Another squeak from John. “Yes – wait –“ He pulled lightly on Sherlock’s hair. “I haven’t got condoms on me. Erm. I mean, shit, that’s really stupid. You’re about to…” 

“Through the clothes,” Sherlock interrupted. “I’ll ruin your trousers, but I can’t imagine you care.” They looked like they’d recently been salvaged from someone’s last-ditch attempt at a bargain-bin sell. Whether that was the case (which he wouldn’t put past John) or whether they’d weathered to this state from simple neglect, undoubtedly John would not mind temporarily ruining them. 

His suspicions were borne out when John whimpered and clutched his hair tighter, drawing Sherlock closer to his crotch. “I am not a horse,” Sherlock told him, voice muffled. 

“I know that.” Sherlock heard skin on wet skin, the sound of John furiously rubbing his hand across his eyes, and a snort. “I never claimed to be a veterinarian.” 

Sherlock acknowledged that with an eye-roll and set to it. 

This was not something in which he had any significant experience, having largely stayed away except for practice out of sheer curiosity on a brand-new, ridiculously Technicolor toy (still in its box, jelly rubber, no condoms to accompany it; ergo, Christmas present from Idiot Anderson to Donovan, who would undoubtedly have had to purchase the necessary prophylactics to keep parabens from leaking into her vagina) he’d stolen from its recipient’s bag. He began the deed by breathing heavily on John’s erection, which was already tenting the front of his trousers, and moved to firm licks through the fabric when that got the response he thought indicated a thumbs-up. Or, in this case, cocks-up. 

John’s thighs tensed and relaxed and his hips bucked against Sherlock’s face. “Oh, Sherlock,” he said, and “Oh, God,” and once, “Fuck fuck fuck _fuck_ yes,” which was quickly followed by a warm, wet bloom across his crotch that elicited a noise of discomfort when Sherlock experimentally rubbed his nose against it. “Ow. Sensitive.” 

“Sorry.” Sherlock pulled away and sniffed. Yes, John had climaxed. He’d always rather assumed he’d know it when he smelled it, an assumption that was borne out now after years of quiet thought. “Are you…” 

The ‘all right?’ died in his throat when John yanked him up off the floor - _Army doctor, right, mustn’t keep forgetting that_ \- and pulled him in close, ruined trousers or no ruined trousers. “Jesus, Sherlock,” he said into Sherlock’s neck. His eyes and nose left drops of wetness there, but once again, Sherlock absolutely did not give a damn. “Fuck.” 

“Whatever you want,” said Sherlock. John could grieve. If he had anything to say about it, there would be pleasure in his grief, a distraction or not if he liked. _The man we both love_ \- Rosamund Mary, gone but never forgotten. 

He closed his eyes and securely wrapped his arms around John once more, letting him do the same at his own speed. This time, it was neither too much nor too little.

**Author's Note:**

> The last five languages in which Sherlock thinks the word 'yes' are, respectively: Hebrew, Arabic, Japanese, Swahili, and Russian. 
> 
> I can be found at godihatethisfreakingcat on Tumblr. :)


End file.
